


Ciclosporin A

by Septdeneuf



Series: Transplanted [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Medical stuff, for an angst war thing at least, not super shippy either, other than that quite mild on the angst, simmons imagines something disturbing once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septdeneuf/pseuds/Septdeneuf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from Goodluckdetective for the RvB Angst war: After the Crash on Chorus, Grif has to worry about his medication (for his transplanted organs) running out. Simmons has to deal with his cybernetics damaged during the crash. They deal together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ciclosporin A

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot to Goodluckdetective for the prompt! This didn't turn super angsty, but I hope you like it anyway. 
> 
> If anyone else has a prompt for me for the RvB Angst war, I'd be happy to hear it. Either tell me here, or on my tumblr: kyuunonana.tumblr.com

Whenever there was an occasion that needed Simmons to reboot his armor's HUD, the first thing he did was turn off the biocomm. It had taken him a while to get to that point, refusing to disable a potentially vital piece of equipment out of hand, but two weeks after he'd become a cyborg Grif and Donut had started a betting pool on what piece of equipment he'd run into next, and Sarge had wanted to do a reboot of his cybernetic systems to recalibrate, which had sounded, you know, just the slightest bit potentially lethal, especially considering the relatively easy fix.

He'd just bumped into things because he couldn't see them for all the error messages popping up in front of him at random intervals. His suit couldn't figure out what the erratic vitals Simmons was providing meant, and saw fit to inform him of that fact nearly all the time. 

There were actually presets for cyborgs in the HUD software, but none of them had fixed the problem, because the configuration Sarge had come up with was so incredibly non-standard that knowing Simmons was part metal only gave the software a marginally better understanding of what was going on inside his body, not nearly enough to stop pestering him about his lack of a pulse and impossible to measure blood pressure. 

So when he came to after the Hand of Merope's crash it wasn't a surprise to see his biocomm warning him about a myriad of issues with his health, most of which he assumed were the same ones it was always complaining about. Maybe one or two real ones, because his head felt like he'd just… been inside a spaceship abruptly dropping from slipspace to hurtle down at terminal velocity into the nearest object with sufficient gravity to pull it in. 

He dismissed all the warnings without reading them. 

* * *

Grif didn't realize it right away. 

In his defense, he'd had other stuff on his mind. Crashing on some planet in the middle of bumfuck nowhere (or, potentially, the only uninhabited area on super densely populated super important planet, and wouldn't they all feel stupid if that was the case.  That was okay. Grif had a high tolerance for feeling stupid.), having to build a new base, complaining about the piece of shit new base, avoiding getting sucked in to the arising blue team problems when Church and Carolina abandoned them without saying anything, ignoring Simmons bitching about cleanliness, dealing with the existential horror of the idea that they might be stuck wherever the were for ages, and there was only a finite number of Oreos on the ship, take your pick. 

It probably should have occurred to him at the same time as the Oreo thing, but, well, priorities. Crumbly cocoa goodness combined with creamy deliciousness first, potentially life saving drugs second. 

The drugs weren't something he thought about all that much, really. Just a regular part of his morning, like refusing to get out of bed until he'd been threatened a minimum of three times and putting too much sugar in his coffee. 

Grif got the pills in packs of a hundred, the biggest size they had, because he'd be taking them for the rest of his life, anyway. Each pack had five strips of them, twenty pills to each, a little over three months of stopping his body from tearing apart the organs that had once been in Simmons body. 

When he finished the last pill in the package one morning he didn't think too much on it, because he still had another full package in one of his armor compartments. So he was good for another three months, and if they hadn't been rescued by the time they ran out, they almost definitely would've run out of Oreos at that point. And what would be the point of surviving that tragedy, anyway?

* * *

Simmons had landed on his helmet in the crash, which had lead to his HUD shorting out several times, and every time he fixed it, he was assaulted by error messages again. 

He dismissed them like always, not spending any time wondering why it seemed to be more error messages every time he turned his helmet on. 

Landing on his head during the ship crash was a perfectly valid reason for him getting random headaches even two weeks after the crash, right?

* * *

Except it wasn't a full package. 

When Grif opened the new package the next morning, his stomach dropped into freefall without taking the rest of him along for the ride. There were two strips of pills in there instead of five. And there were already two pills missing from one of them. 

Thirty eight pills. Not an instant ticket to Multi Organ Failure Town, but just the day before Wash had given them a huge lecture about the need to ration food. Grif had responded to that lecture by eating some Oreos. He responded to this by taking his pill for the day. 

Thirty seven left. 

* * *

Simmons' head felt like there was way too much stuff in it. He'd make a smart ass comment about how that must be reflective of how much knowledge he had in there, as soon as it stopped feeling like he was just one too deep breath away from his skull bursting open at the seams. He sat on his bunk, trying to will the dizziness away. At some point he was vaguely aware of Grif coming in and rifling through his stuff, but his ears were ringing too much to start a conversation. 

He kept his eyes trained on the floor, rubbing his forehead to try and make the pressure go away, but it wasn't helping. He kinda assumed Grif had left when the noises of junk being moved about stopped, but a sudden hand on his shoulder had him look up. "-mons, what the fuck?" 

"Huh?" 

"I said you're bleeding, Simmons, what the fuck?" Well that couldn't be right. 

"'m not wounded", Simmons protested weakly, but as he said it, he suddenly became aware of liquid on his lips. He reached up to touch it, and was surprised to find his fingers coming back bloody. Okay, not surprised, exactly, Grif had told him, after all, but definitely confused. He really wasn't wounded, where would blood suddenly be coming from? Had his head burst open from the pressure, after all? Shouldn't it feel pressure-y, then? 

A piece of fabric was suddenly shoved under his nose before Simmons had time to ask about whether or not his skull had in fact fractured. Was Grif trying to smother him? 

"Lean forward", the orange soldier instructed, and Simmons raised one eyebrow inquisitively. Not that he ever raised more than one, the metal side of his face didn't actually have an eyebrow, but he knew Grif was fluent in Simmons' facial expressions even without it. 

"You're supposed to lean forward when you have a nosebleed, idiot", Grif clarified, looking at him expectantly. 

"Aren't you supposed to lean backward?", Simmons asked, words muffled by the old t-shirt in front of his face. Wasn't that better, because then maybe less blood came out? 

"No, it's forward… wait, is it?" Grif's face scrunched up in confusion. "No, it is, so the blood doesn't run back in your throat, so you don't drown in it", he declared after a moment of deliberation. 

Well that didn't sound like a pleasant way to go at all. Drowning in your own blood… Simmons didn't have much experience with nosebleeds, except for the occasional tiny one after blowing his nose a lot during an especially bad cold. He never got spontaneous nosebleeds, so he wasn't up to date on the proper etiquette for that. 

When Grif grabbed his shoulder and make him lean forward, while still pressing the fabric to his nose, Simmons finally realized that apparently he was having a nose bleed now. He really probably should've realized that a lot sooner, but in his defense his head was hurting a lot. But bleeding from the nose was probably better than having an exploded head, so, that was a win, of sorts, then, right? 

At least the pounding headache was finally retreating a bit. Except it wasn't a pounding headache, because he hadn't had one of those since his heart had been replaced by a mechanical one. But it felt like it should be. Like if he quickly borrowed his heart back from Grif this headache would hit him with the full rhythm of the donated organ's drumbeat. 

He recoiled from the mental image that came along with "borrowing Grif's heart" as soon as he finished the thought though. Metal fingers digging their way through the Y shaped scar tissue on the Hawaiian's chest, gripping the rapidly beating piece of muscle, pulling… Wow, no, repress, repress. He had a feeling this would make an appearance in one of his nightmares at some point. 

Grif handed him the t-shirt and Simmons went to pressing it against his nose himself. It took a while for the blood flow to slow down, but eventually he was able to remove it from his nose long enough to identify that it was one of his own. One of his newer ones, even. Pretty much any of Grif's shirts would have been less of a loss since they were all worn out and on the brink of falling apart, anyway, but of course it was Simmons' shirt ruined. 

Well, if Donut had been on the ship with them, then maybe he would've been able to come up with some crazy trick for removing the blood, but as it was, this was going straight in the trash. Not that he could really completely blame Grif for the demise of the shirt, since it was his own blood doing all the ruining. 

He really had never had a nosebleed like this before. Now that his head was finally mostly clear again, he was starting to realize what this meant. Or rather realize that he had no idea what this meant, but he doubted it was anything good. 

* * *

After dealing with Simmons' nosebleed and sending Sarge to check on him, Grif made his way into the wreckage of the ship. Maybe he should've stayed, but Sarge was going to check out Simmons' robot parts, because he didn't have any medical training to effectively check the human parts, and the maroon soldier always got weird when Sarge opened his chest cavity. He probably would've sent Grif away, so he could just save him the trouble. 

And he really needed to find the infirmary on the ship to see if they had more of his medicine. 

Not that he had the highest hopes. Apparently the stuff he was on was pretty specialized and not something that most people needed who hadn't had organs transplanted or had some crazy autoimmune diseases. There were apparently plenty of alternatives, he'd been on something else initially, the only thing Doc had been able to think of, which had been rife with side effects, but it had apparently done its job more or less okay. When he'd been transferred out of Blood Gulch the debriefings had involved being examined by a doctor who'd prescribed the stuff he was on now. 

That stuff wasn't great, either, but at least it didn't make him more fat, like the old stuff. Not that going off the old stuff had made him any less fat, but he really didn't need medication to help him with that. 

The new stuff had been better for him so far, but he'd made the mistake of reading the list of side effects that came in the box, once, and it hadn't been very encouraging. Apparently it could fry his liver and kidneys over time, the very organs it was trying to protect, gave him a higher chance for cancer and could even make his gums grow grotesquely. So, running out of it wasn't exactly something that he felt all that sad about. At the very least he wouldn't be bedridden from any little cold anymore, if his immune system got to start back up.

But having most of his organs stop working wasn't something he wanted to experience either. 

He knew the ship had had a pretty large infirmary, but being in it now it was easy to get turned around, because, well, the thing was turned around in the first place. It hadn't exactly landed upside down, but crookedly enough that it wasn't right side up in most places, either. 

It took him a while of searching to find a computer terminal that wasn't completely fucked three ways to sunday. Not that it was exactly intact, either, but at the very least it was functional enough to show him a map of the ship. 

Figuring out where exactly he was on the map wasn't exactly easy, because the "you are here" marker wasn't working properly, and kept jumping from place to place. He had to backtrack a bit and find a numbered access port but when he finally pieced it together, he realized he wasn't all that far from the infirmary, even in the right deck. In fact he must've passed it when he'd come in. 

He hadn't. 

There hadn't been anything to pass. He'd entered through the torn open side of the ship where it had broken apart. 

The infirmary wasn't here. It was at the other crash site, wherever the hell that was, in the other half of the ship.

He wouldn't be getting his refill from here.

* * *

It wasn't long after Sarge had left that Grif came back into his and Simmons' shared room. Simmons was still sitting on the bed, keeping the ruined t-shirt within reach. Looked like he hadn't moved much since Grif had found him an hour ago. 

"How's the nose?", Grif asked as he sat down on his own bunk, rummaging through his armor compartments for a cigarette. Would probably run out of those, soon, too. Story of his life. 

"Better", Simmons said morosely. "Sarge figured out what's wrong." That surprised Grif. He hadn't really expected their CO to be able to do anything, had just figured there was a chance he'd know something medical that Grif didn't. Or that he'd give Simmons some insane advice about how to deal with nosebleeds that would make everything worse, that had been a real possibility, too. 

"So, what is it?" 

"The blood pressure regulation parts of my artificial heart are broken, and apparently it just randomly decided to pump it sky high, and that's why I got a nosebleed and a headache", Simmons explained. 

"Oh. Well, that sucks", Grif commented. "So, did he fix it?"

"No, he doesn't have the parts. He's going to see if he can improvise something, but you know how likely that is to work", Simmons said. He wasn't looking at Grif, just staring down at the bloodied t-shirt still sitting on his bunk. 

"So it's like fifty fifty he's gonna fix your thing or put in a diesel powered bomb, instead?", Grif ventured.

Simmons snorted at that. "Yeah, just about." 

"So you're probably gonna have to get used to nose bleeds, then", Grif said. 

"Yeah, or strokes", Simmons added. 

"Or that… wait, what?", Grif exclaimed, his voice climbing an octave on the last bit. 

"Well, apparently if the blood pressure gets too high, it could burst a blood vessel in my brain and then I'd get a stroke, or die. Or, if the blood pressure gets too low, I don't get enough oxygen in the brain and die from that." 

"…Fuck." 

"Yeah." 

 _If he hadn't given me his organs, he wouldn't have these problems, right now_. The thought entered Grif's brain unbidden, just like it did whenever something else in Simmons' robot body malfunctioned. Of course, if Simmons hadn't done that, then Grif wouldn't be here to feel guilty about it, either. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He'd finally managed to locate a cigarette, but suddenly he didn't feel like smoking it, anymore. "Well, if you do that, and I die of multi organ failure, then who's Sarge gonna yell at all day?" 

"What?", Simmons shrieked. It wasn't a pleasant sound, but Grif was glad to hear it. He'd sounded oddly passive about his own potential demise, and it had been a bit freaky to hear him talk about it so nonchalantly. "What do you mean organ failure, why would your organs be failing, I just gave them to you!" 

"You didn't _just_ give them to me, that was years ago", Grif corrected. "My pills are running out, and the infirmary is in the other half of the ship, so I can't get any more." 

"What, the pills that stop your immune system from eating my organs?" 

"Yeah, those. I mean, I still have some that'll last me like a month, but if we're not found by then…" There was one positive to this, at least. The idea of Simmons dying from a stroke because of his faulty robot parts was a lot less scary if Grif considered that be might not actually be there to witness it. Not that if he died he wanted Simmons to die, too, or anything. But the icy hand that clamped around his heart at the thought of losing the maroon idiot squeezed a little less hard at the idea of Grif being the first to go. 

"But if you run out of those, what happens? The organs don't immediately stop working, right?", Simmons asked. He'd scooted forward on his bed, intent on Grif. 

"No, probably not, but I honestly don't know how long it takes. The doctors warned me to never let that happen, so… If I go too long without the organs might be toast, even if I start back up again, later." 

"Well… if worst comes to worst, Sarge could just turn you into a robot, too", Simmons ventured, but he didn't sound like he really believed in it. For good reason, too. 

"He could've just done that last time, saved you all the trouble, you know he won't do that for me." Grif had the feeling that the situation may have changed a little over the years, maybe Sarge's hatred for him was less pronounced now, but he doubted that feeling would hold up to scrutiny. "Besides, he doesn't have the parts to fix your blood pressure thing, he definitely doesn't have the parts to replace all the organs you gave me." 

"Well, if the organs get messed up, and we get rescued later maybe you could just get new ones?", Simmons suggested. Grif just sighed, didn't dignify that with more of an answer. Getting new organs, ever, was pretty much out of the questions. Getting one organ replaced was bad enough, waiting lists were ginormous, and having a living donor like what Simmons had done was far from standard. Getting the liver, the heart and lungs replaced was pretty much impossible from the get go, never mind all the criteria for health apart from the organs needing to be replaced that Grif had no hope of ever achieving. 

Basically, if Simmons organs gave out on him for whatever reason, he was royally boned. 

"Guess we really need to get rescued, soon", Simmons said with a shaky exhale. 

"Yep." 

There wasn't really much else to be said. 

 


End file.
